


The Adventure Of The Two Coptic Patriarchs (1898)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [169]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Destiel - Freeform, Egypt, F/M, Gay Sex, Government Conspiracy, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Oral Sex, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-19
Updated: 2017-07-19
Packaged: 2018-12-04 06:18:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11549253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: A deadly war claims two lives. However, this was not a war between nations but one between two British government departments – and Sherlock has to secure justice for those killed.





	The Adventure Of The Two Coptic Patriarchs (1898)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [randomskittles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/randomskittles/gifts).



It was typical, perhaps, that one case involving the machinations of governments followed on so soon from another, let alone our concurrent run of Egyptian-themed cases. Heavy snows that January had brought most of London to a standstill, which Sherlock in particular rejoiced in as he did not have to go and see his family (I had pointed out that he could still have walked to the family home, and got the sort of betrayed look that he usually reserved for those desperate days when he wanted all my bacon of a morning). I should probably have used the time to write, but there was something uniquely wonderful about sitting by a blazing fire holding a hot (in both senses) angel in my arms, both of us wrapped in a blanket and just enjoying the silence. In between all this being busy doing nothing, I managed to at least make a start on the “Theft Of The Bruce-Partington Plans”. 

One page did qualify as a start! It was nearly half-full!

The major event of that first winter of 'Ninety-Eight was the totally unexpected engagement of Mr. Bacchus Holmes, whose relationship with his brother remained 'difficult' (I can actually hear him quirking an eyebrow at that). The lucky – and I use the term in its widest possible sense - lady was one Mrs. Muriel Bannerman, who had had an affair with him some eight years ago, from which a son had resulted (one of many of the lounge-lizard's, I was sure, as the fellow was that sort of person). The lady had considered him unsuitable for a father - clearly she had had good sense - and had found instead a rich businessman, a Mr. Mark Bannerman, who had married her and adopted her son Bevill as his own. However, her husband had died recently whilst in Africa on business, and she had decided (and I shall always remember the straight face that Sherlock kept when he told me this) that her former lover was 'better than nothing, just about'. That the marriage would take place not long after my looming birthday was also a little surprising, but I supposed that the prospective Mrs. Holmes did not wish to give her potential husband time to change his mind. Or more likely, make a run for it!

Mrs. Bannerman had herself called on us before the wedding and apologized for not inviting us, but her own family from Essex were extremely conservative in their views, and she did not want her elderly grandfather, who was not expected to last the year out, to be upset by any argument. I privately thought that many of the Holmeses themselves were 'conservative' enough, but held my tongue, and she did arrange for slices of the wedding-cake to be sent to us afterwards, which was considerate of her. I might add that she was an extremely forceful woman, and I may have smiled just a little to think of her keeping a certain lounge-lizard In His Place.

All right, I smiled a lot! But so did Sherlock!

+~+~+

It was a surprisingly warm late January morning when I stumbled out of the bedroom to find, unusually, Sherlock up and fully caffeinated. It had been a stormy night, and the weather had seemed to drive Sherlock to even greater feats of endurance than usual, as he had come inside me three times before falling onto me and straight asleep. I had held him all night, thinking to myself how lucky I was. I picked up the “Times”, and was struck by the single word emblazoned across its front page.

“’Fashoda!’” I read. Sherlock looked up at me.

“Pardon?” he said.

“You were right”, I said, reading the first paragraph. “The French have tried to seize a Nile crossing at some place called Fashoda, and General Kitchener has caught them there.”

At the start of the month, the British forces had won a decisive victory over the forces of the Mahdi, the fanatic religious leader who had held sway in Sudan for so long. Less than fifty British dead for over ten thousand of the enemy, with thousands more captured. The rebels would certainly regroup under a new leader, but their position now was untenable. However, as Sherlock had prophesied in our previous case, the French had indeed tried to secure the upper Sudan for themselves. A small force of barely a hundred men had raised the tricolour over Fashoda, and I silently thanked God for a sensible general like Kitchener (and, presumably, his French counterpart) for holding off. For now, at least. 

“There is of course the possibility that the French may stand their ground”, Sherlock said. “There are some in Paris who resent their informal alliance with England. Berlin must be overjoyed at this development.”

I could not but agree, little knowing how the desert stand-off that people in our most recent case had helped cause was to have repercussions for us in the very near future.

+~+~+

Berlin may have been (and almost certainly was) delighted with the discord between London and Paris, but the soon-to-be-married Mr. Bacchus Holmes most definitely was not. I had thought his unwelcome arrival in Baker Street was merely to grouse about his extra workload, but it turned out that he wanted Sherlock’s help on a case. I noted with some amusement he looked tired, and wondered if the potential Mrs. Holmes was responsible. Their honeymoon, in the United States, had been delayed until later in the year, presumably in the hope of better weather for the long crossing.

At the start of the month”, he said, “a British warship, _“HMS Ajax”_ , departed from Alexandria. It had on board two Coptic patriarchs, Father Benedictus and Father Fidelis, and it made landfall at Plymouth a week later. It had been arranged that a member of the government would greet the men and escort them to London for talks, but he missed them, and they set off for London on their own.”

“Why were they coming to London?” Sherlock asked.

“ _That_ is classified information”, his brother said crisply. 

Sherlock pointed across the room. “And that wooden object over there is a door. Shut it behind you when you leave!”

His brother scowled, but was quickly resigned to his fate. I did not bother to hide my smirk.

“All right”, our visitor grumbled. “The current Egyptian government is making things difficult for the Coptic Church, to the point where there is some talk of an insurrection. Probably nothing, but bearing in mind the situation at a certain riverside trading post just now, the British Army is severely overstretched. We cannot afford trouble in Egypt whilst our backs are turned.”

“I take it that something has befallen these men?” Sherlock asked. 

“They are both dead”, his brother said grimly. “And when their colleagues back in Pharaoh Land find out, there will be hell to pay!”

+~+~+

“Of course the two priests were safe on board one of Her Majesty’s ships”, Mr. Bacchus Holmes said. “But it does not take a genius to know that few ships were travelling from Egypt back to here last month, and someone could easily have had agents at Plymouth, ready and waiting.”

“The French?” I ventured.

“Who else?” our guest said morosely, slumping into the fireside chair. “Probably out of the country by now, whisked away by a fast yacht or something.”

“What happened?” Sherlock asked.

“That was the strange part”, our guest said. “The ship's officers escorted the priests as arranged to the Great Western Railway's station in Plymouth, where they got on the express to London. Unfortunately their guides did not wait to see it leave. After they had gone, the priests must have changed their minds, and taken a cab to the Devonport station of the London & South Western Railway. The Lord alone knows why!”

“That seems bizarre”, I said. “That route is slower, if I remember, let alone that they were in a strange country. And they could not know that there would be a train for them.”

“True”, our guest agreed. “I checked, and there were no accidents or delays on the Great Western that would have entailed a change of plan. Anyway, the conductor entered their compartment around Okehampton and found both men dead, each shot with a single bullet to the heart.”

Sherlock nodded.

“Did the train make any stops before they were found?” he asked. Our visitor shook his head.

“The train was not yet in Okehampton”, he said, “and it had slowed to a walking pace at Lydford where they crossed onto L.S.W.R. tracks officially. Someone waiting could have boarded the train there; it always slowed at that point. The line up to there is owned by another company, the Plymouth, Devonport and South Western Junction. Really a front for the South Western.”

Sherlock looked across at me.

“I need you on this case, doctor”, he said. “Are you able to go west with us?”

“Of course”, I smiled, feeling even more warmed by his brother's scowl. 

“Bring your medical bag”, Sherlock advised. “And your gun. I have a feeling that you will need one or the other, and quite possibly both.”

+~+~+

The bodies of the two priests had been taken to Okehampton's police station, so it was to that town that we directed ourselves. The recent sudden thaw had caused some disruption with flooding, but our railway companies were used to such things, and all was well as we sped westwards. It had of course proven impractical to detain everyone on a ten-coach express, so Mr. Bacchus Holmes was probably right in that the culprits had got away. I did not see just what he expected Sherlock to be able to do or what my friend hoped that I could achieve, but I was determined to do my best by him.

It would be fair to describe our reception at the police station in the little moorland town as mixed. Sergeant Venables was an avid reader of my books, and was clearly delighted at Sherlock’s involvement in the case. The same could not be said of Doctor Morris, the local doctor who had made the initial examination of the bodies before a police expert had arrived from London. He seemed annoyed that the sergeant had given permission for me to examine the bodies, and was clearly striving to hold his tongue. Before I went in, Sherlock pulled me to one side.

“John”, he said in a low voice, “I do not want to prejudice your examination. But I wish you to pay particular attention to the _teeth_ of the dead men, and tell me exactly what you find.”

I did not see the relevance of such a request, but nodded my agreement, went inside and began my examination. Both priests had been in their forties, Father Benedictus slightly older, I thought. He was also the healthier of the two, though both were underweight, and both slightly shorter than average. I examined their mouths with great care, but could not find anything unusual about their teeth, both sets seeming in a reasonable condition for men of their ages.

I had almost done when I spotted something that _was_ unusual, a small tattoo on Father Benedictus’ ankle. It seemed to be a word of some sort, and I could make out what seemed to be ‘kerenza’. I wrote the word down in my notebook, and went back out to report my (lack of) findings. 

+~+~+

“You found something”, Sherlock said as we walked down the High Street. His brother was in the post office, sending a telegram.

“I found nothing about the teeth”, I said. “And I looked closely, but they were perfectly normal for what men of their age should have had.”

To my surprise, that news seemed to depress my friend.

“I was afraid of that”, he said heavily. “Was there anything else?”

“Yes”, I said, taking out my notebook. “One of them had this word tattooed on his ankle. Very small writing; I almost missed it.”

His face darkened even more.

“It is as I suspected”, he said. “There is little more that we can do here. We should get to our train.”

“Is something wrong?” I asked.

“Very!" he said. 

+~+~+

“Well?” Mr. Bacchus Holmes asked, as we sat down in our compartment and waited for the train to set off.

“I am not a performing dog, to obey your commands”, Sherlock said tartly. “I have a question. You said that you sent someone down to meet the priests off the boat. Why was this not co-ordinated with the ship’s crew, so that the men could be passed over safely?

“It was”, his brother groused. “But the man had a minor crisis at home, and missed the express. By the time he reached Exeter, he knew that he would not make it, so he decided to wait there for the train that he knew they would be on.”

“Hmm”, Sherlock said. “Who was the man in question?”

“A Mr. Henry Goodchild”, Mr. Bacchus Holmes said. “Dull as ditch-water, but dependable.”

“Your department?” I asked.

“Absolutely not!” his brother exclaimed forcibly. “I am adjuncted to the Foreign Office.”

Sherlock pressed his fingers together in thought. 

“What is the most likely outcome from the priests’ murders?” he asked. “Apart from the instability along the Nile.”

“The British government will probably look foolish when it comes out”, his brother admitted. “People will say that they should have protected these men, despite the impracticality of such a thing. And the War Office will gloat mightily. I would say that they would be unbearable, but they passed that some time ago.”

“Children all!” Sherlock sighed.

“Why?” I asked. 

“There are those in the War Office who want to take over the Foreign Office, and make one super-department of state”, Bacchus Holmes explained. “The never-ending game of turf wars.”

“Except if the weakness of the British government means that the French do not back down at Fashoda, we may have the wars without the turf”, Sherlock said. “I presume that the War Office would welcome the chance to take down the French a peg or four, whilst the Foreign Office is advising caution?”

“True”, his brother said glumly. “I am sorry for dragging you both down here. I do not know why I thought you could help.”

“On the contrary”, Sherlock said. “I can point you in the direction of the priests’ killers – or at least the people who paid them – fairly easily.”

The train chose that moment to start, and Sherlock’s brother nearly fell to the floor in surprise.

“How?” he demanded.

“When we get to Exeter”, Sherlock said, “the doctor and I are going to double back and head to Plymouth via the Great Western Railway.”

“But why?” his brother demanded. “Tell me!”

“Because whoever arranged this will certainly have left someone in Okehampton who will have monitored our arrival and departure”, Sherlock said, “and I wish to create for them a pleasant little illusion that we are headed back to the Great Wen. In reality, the doctor and I will hopefully spend tomorrow finishing the case for you.”

His brother scowled at him.

“You are not going to tell me, are you?” he sulked.

“Not just yet”, Sherlock said. “But I will give you a clue.”

“What?”

_“Love is the answer!”_

The scowl became a glare. I tried to suppress a chuckle, but failed abysmally.

+~+~+

I was surprised that when we arrived at Plymouth Station, Sherlock insisted on checking into the luxurious Great Western Hotel there. However, he insisted that he had his reasons.

“I am looking for one person in particular, the one who masterminded this whole thing”, he said. “I have reason to suspect that this person would only have stayed at one of the very best hotels in the town.”

We were fortunate. Miss Gussett, the receptionist at the hotel (sixty-five if she was a day, and as if you have to ask about the simpering!) melted under Sherlock's charm, and was eager to help. Sherlock described a gentleman he was looking for who had travelled down from London, and would probably have requested the best room they had. Yes, there had been a gentleman who had arrived just over a week ago, and was still in the hotel, due to leave the following morning. A Mr. Smith (really?) in the master suite. 

Sherlock thanked her profusely, and we retired to our own rooms.

“Who is this Mr. Smith?” I asked. “I presume that that is not his real name?”

“I would be very much surprised if it was”, Sherlock said. “Unfortunately he is likely to stay in his room right through to his departure, but we may have an opportunity to search it whilst he is at breakfast tomorrow morning.”

“Search it for what?” I asked.

“For his real identity”, Sherlock said grimly. “If we are to procure any sort of justice, we must have that before he leaves.”

+~+~+

I awoke in a very comfortable bed to find six foot one of glorious angel wrapped around me. Yes, life was good.

Sherlock was rubbing himself against me in his sleep, and I smiled down at the impossible bed-head. Even when in slumber, he still sought me out. I eased myself carefully down his body, nibbling at his neck before tracing a path down to first one nipple and then the other. He sighed happily, but did not open his eyes.

All right, I would have to up my game. He was already half-hard, and I gently rubbed him to full-mast, then eased down even further and began to run my tongue up and down the underside of his cock. He writhed beneath me, letting out little grunts of satisfaction, but those blue eyes remained closed. 

Being a doctor sometimes had its advantages, so I gently fingered him open and inserted one finger, whilst taking his cock-head into my mouth and humming, something I knew he loved. It was hard concentrating on that and seeking out his prostate at one and the same time, but if I twisted my finger just so......

He let out a startled cry and came without warning flooding my mouth with his come. He seemed to have momentarily lost control of his body, for when he stopped shaking he swiftly pulled me up and began apologizing.

“My love”, I grinned, dabbing a spot of his own come onto his nose, “I don't mind. Seeing you like that – it' is so good that I can still do that to you!”

He smiled at me so lovingly that my heart almost broke, then pulled me into a kiss, tonguing his own come from my mouth. Finally he fell back, sighing.

“I love you”, he said. “And today we are going to wrap this case up, though we may need to be a little underhand in our methods.”

“I'm all for putting my hands under!” I quipped. He stared at me and shook his head reprovingly.

“Later, John!” he smiled. “Here is what I need you to do.....”

+~+~+

Annoyingly, Mr. Smith confounded us by ordering breakfast to be brought to his room the following morning. Sherlock was still getting dressed after our morning capers, so I went down to breakfast alone. I had barely ordered, however, when the fire alarm went off, and like the other guests, I hurried out to the front of the hotel. It was raining slightly, and there was a general grumbling as we waited for the all clear. 

It turned out that some debris at the bottom of the lift shaft had caught alight, and it was soon dealt with, although the twenty minutes that we had to wait seemed a lot longer. Even though I was fully dressed unlike some of the guests, I was glad to be back inside, to find that my friend had joined me at my table.

“All is well?” I asked in a low voice.

“Very”, he whispered back. “That was the only way to get our 'Mr. Smith' out of his room.”

“So you know who he is?” I asked.

“I am rather afraid that I do”, he said. “This is one case when finding the guilty party is only half the battle. If we are to see justice done, we shall have to play as dirty a game as our adversaries, something that I am loath to do, but which must be done.”

I looked at him uneasily. He seemed unhappy at his findings, and I wanted to reassure him. At that moment, the waiter brought my breakfast, and I pushed the coffee over to Sherlock.

“Here”, I said. “You need it more than I do. I will order another one. And yes, I did remember to ask for extra bacon.”

He smiled at me gratefully.

+~+~+

Our journey back to Baker Street was mostly in silence; Sherlock did not expect the mysterious 'Mr. Smith' to return to town until later in the day. Once we were back in our rooms, he immediately dispatched a telegram to someone, but did not tell me who it was. I took my notebook and sat on the couch, in order to begin writing up the notes from the day's events. To my surprise he came and sat down beside me, then lay down so his head was resting against my leg, his legs draped over the couch's arm. I smiled down at him, but he looked worried.

“Sometimes I hate this job”, he muttered. “I can empathize as to how some policemen go bad when they have to deal with the criminal classes all the time.”

I lightly ruffled the always impossible hair, and he made a half-hearted attempt to swat at me. We stayed like that for some time, until I heard the sound of the doorbell, and someone ascending the stairs.

“Our visitor approaches”, Sherlock said dryly, making no effort to move from his position. That surprised me, but I said nothing. He was comfortable there, and in his present state of mind, that was all that mattered. There was a knock at the door, and Sherlock finally hoisted himself upright, though he immediately edged closer to me as if needing the contact.

“Enter”, he called out.

The man who entered our room then looked distinctly ill-at-ease. He could have been anywhere between thirty and sixty, was sharp-faced, and dressed in what were obviously high-quality clothes. 

“You sent for me, Mr. Holmes?” he said, sounding distinctly annoyed.

“Be seated, Mr. Colinton”, Sherlock said. “Our business will not detain you for long, I assure you.”

“I was not aware that we had any 'business'”, the visitor sniffed.

“Well, if you do not wish to talk to me, there is always the Marquess of Lansdowne”, Sherlock said dryly. “I am sure that he would be fascinated to hear what is going on in the lower reaches of the government department that he ostensibly leads. And then, I am personally acquainted with the prime minister, dear Lord Salisbury, for whom I solved a little matter some years ago. I do not think that either of them would take well to what _you_ have done. And last but by no means least, there are the London papers.....”

The man looked horrified.

“You would not dare!” he stormed. “In the current climate, that would make you a traitor!”

“I take no lessons on morality from a man with blood on his hands!” Sherlock snapped back.

The two stared at each other for several moments, before our visitor slumped in his chair.

“How much do you know?” he demanded.

“I know that you are, in public at least, the minister responsible for foreign intelligence”, Sherlock said crisply. “I also know that, in reality, you are head of Department Two.”

“What on earth is Department Two?” I asked. 

“A government office dedicated to pursuing the goals of the British Empire and the War Office”, Sherlock said. “Not necessarily in that order, and regardless of trifling things such as morality and the law.”

“You do not understand government”, our visitor stated bluntly. “One cannot make an omelette without breaking eggs.”

(I was rapidly coming to the conclusion that that was a stock phrase of government, in that it excused just about any foul behaviour.)

“I understand murder”, Sherlock said. “Double murder, in this case. I understand what you did. And I fully understand what you are going to do over the next few weeks, unless you want this whole sorry mess blown all over front pages across this scepter'd isle.”

The man scowled.

“There are some facts that I do not know about this case”, Sherlock said. “You will provide them, and then I will tell you my demands. I am sure that you believe you have covered your tracks, sir, but like you, I can play a low game when needed. Deal fairly with me, and you will continue as you have been. Try to cross me, and I will destroy you.”

He did not raise his voice at all, but there was a tone of absolute conviction about his words. And our guest could see it.

“Say on”, he said flatly.

“The two priests?” Sherlock asked.

“Both on a sabbatical in Georgia.”

“The names of the two men?”

“James Penruddock and William Kirrin”, our guest said. 

“What were they doing in Egypt?” Sherlock asked.

“They were both mining engineers”, our guest said. “Seconded for a year to work abroad, on very generous rates.”

“Except that they are now both dead”, my friend pointed out. “A curious definition of the word 'generous'.”

“Who were these men?” I asked, bewildered.

“You knew them better as Father Benedictus and Father Fidelis”, Sherlock said. 

“What?” I exclaimed. He turned to me.

“This began, like I said back in Devonshire, as a turf war. The War Office wanted a showdown with the French, and had been hoping the current confrontation with them at Fashoda would escalate into open warfare.”

“But the French are our allies!” I protested.

“Old attitudes die hard”, Sherlock said grimly. “Remember, the Prussians were our allies for over a century before the balance of power abruptly changed across Europe, even in our own lifetimes. Many at the War Office doubtless hanker for the olden days, Waterloo and Trafalgar and all that. They view the Foreign Office as untrustworthy.....”

“They are!” our guest cut in. Sherlock looked at him, and he subsided.

“So when they learnt that their rivals had been entrusted with the safe conduct of two Coptic Patriarchs, they saw an excellent chance to cause them grief. Even if it involved the incidental murder of two innocent men.”

“The real priests are still very much alive”, our guest said defensively.

“Unlike poor Mr. Penruddock and Mr. Kirrin”, Sherlock observed. “Very well. The real Father Benedictus and Father Fidelis are persuaded to decamp to Georgia for a time. Mr. Penruddock and Mr. Kirrin are meanwhile told that, for some reason, they need to pass themselves off as these Coptic priests all the way to England. I would assume that a large sum of money is promised for their co-operation. Doubtless they are also told that they need only go as far as getting on the train at Plymouth, and that once they reach Okehampton, they can double back. Unfortunately for them, it is imperative for the War Office that two dead bodies be laid at the feet of their political rivals. The men are shot, probably soon after leaving Plymouth, their assassin leaving the train at Lydford where the train always slows at the nominal change of railway company.”

I stared in shock.

“You are guessing”, our guest said sulkily. Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at him.

“Mr. Paul Clabon?” he said.

Our visitor's face turned deathly pale.

“It was typical of your operative that, since the British taxpayer was paying for it, he checked himself into Plymouth's best hotel for a week”, Sherlock said with an unpleasant smile. “I expect that he and his men were waiting for the crew of the _“Ajax”_ when they arrived with the two 'priests'. They threatened them with all sorts of repercussions if they did not stick to the story that they took their guests to the Great Western Railway Station. Doubtless they were also responsible for delaying the Foreign Office agent sent to escort them.”

Our visitor remained silent.

“I took the measure of entering Mr. Clabon's room this morning during an impromptu fire alarm at our hotel”, Sherlock said. “Very sloppy, sir. If you are pretending to be someone else, keeping your real identity in your wallet is highly inadvisable.”

“What do you want?” our guest asked snappily. “I thought that you and your 'friend' here were all for Empire. You cannot go to the press.”

“Sir, your department has murdered two innocent men!” Sherlock said angrily. “Two lives taken for the basest of reasons. International affairs frankly bore me. I can and I will expose you for what you are. However, if you undertake certain restorative measures, then for the sake of the Empire, I will desist.”

“Such as?”

“Who are the next of kin of the two men?” Sherlock asked.

“Penruddock was married with one son. Kirrin was single, living at home with his mother.”

Sherlock wrote some numbers on a piece of paper and passed it over to our guest, who raised his eyebrows.

“An anonymous benefactor is going to give a large sum of money to the next of kin of both men”, Sherlock said. “Mr. Clabon's employment will be terminated as of today. And Mr. Colinton, understand this. Should you fail to meet these conditions in full, I too have some 'interesting' friends who could make your life distinctly unpleasant, if not considerably shorter. For now, I have not demanded your resignation too. Kindly note that I may rescind that particular act of unwarranted generosity at short, as in zero, notice.”

Our guest swallowed at the threat.

“It shall be done”, he said. “Good day, gentlemen.”

He left hurriedly. Sherlock sighed and slumped back to his former position. I ruffled his hair again, and he leant into me even further.

“Murder by the British government”, I said softly. “They are all at it!”

“We have so little proof”, he said. “I am sure that the bodies have already been disposed of, and any investigation could easily be derailed. No, this is the best solution that I could have wrung out of this sorry mess. Though I still feel dirty.”

He sighed unhappily.

“What did you mean when you asked me to look at the men's teeth?” I asked, hoping to distract him.

“Egyptian food is often laden with the desert sands”, he explained. “It wears down the local people's' teeth more than usual.”

“But these men came from Egypt”, I objected.”

“Yes”, he said, “but there were working for the British Army, who source their food supplies from elsewhere. Had they been real Coptic priests, their teeth would have been worn down.”

“Oh”, I said. “And the mystery word, 'kerenza'? It sounds almost Italian.”

He chuckled.

“That was what helped me be certain”, he said. “'Kerenza' is a Cornish word for 'love' or 'beloved'. Hardly something that a real Coptic Patriarch would likely have on his ankle!”

“Of course", I said.

+~+~+

Postscriptum: Although Mr. Colinton (i.e. the British government) did indeed pay sizeable sums to the next of kin of the two men who his department had so cruelly dispatched into the next world, he foolishly tried to circumvent Sherlock's other condition by sacking Mr. Clabon, then getting him rehired the following week by another government department. Sherlock told me this a few days later, after I read to him how a certain War Department functionary had been caught by a policeman in a most compromising position and had been summarily dismissed, the second loss to the government after someone they had recently re-hired had been found floating in the Thames having apparently taken his own life. Mercifully in light of what was to follow, the French backed away from Fashoda, saving the undeclared Anglo-French alliance. The British government (for once) handled matters well; there was a general realignment of borders and interests to the French advantage in Africa, and the town where they had suffered such humiliation was subsequently renamed Kodok, which name is still bears today.

+~+~+

I had, I suppose, gone too long in my life without some major disaster – except that this time, it was not Sherlock who was nearly killed. It was me.


End file.
